


Fur and Sin

by snapeslittleblackbuttons



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 00:51:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12200676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snapeslittleblackbuttons/pseuds/snapeslittleblackbuttons
Summary: The last thing Remus Lupin needs—especially just before being dismissed—is a distraction in the form of a hazel-eyed student.Written for the Sing Me A Rare OS Competition (Autumn 2017). AWARDS: "Admin Wish We'd Written This Award"; WINNER: Most Outrageous Pairing; WINNER: Best Surprise Ending.





	Fur and Sin

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SingMeARareOSComp](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SingMeARareOSComp) collection. 



> This piece is part of the Sing Me A Rare OS Competition Autumn 2017. I had a choice of song and one character which are Everlong, by Foo Fighters and Pansy Parkinson. The Admins of the group then randomly chose the other character or characters. All character, spells, magical equipment and locations from the Harry Potter series belong to JK Rowling.
> 
>  **Prompt:**  
>  Everlong, by Foo Fighters  
> "Come down, and waste away with me, Down with me, Slow how you wanted it to be."
> 
>  **Author Note:** Welcome, dear readers, to my little experiment. This is the first and only time I've written in present tense (inspired by the flawless "Turn" by Saras_Girl. If you haven't read it, go. Now. I'll be here when you get back.). Writing in the present tense was difficult. Very difficult. Did I mention it was difficult? Anyway, it was a great experience, and I'd love to try it again when I don't have a strict word count limit. 
> 
> Lastly, without (hopefully) giving away too much, (and since you've been so awesome to read the author's note all the way to here) don't be dissuaded by the Underage Tag. It's well, sorta not needed. Sorta. Trust.

It was inevitable.

Just as it had been each time before.

To prepare, he'd hoarded as many precious galleons as he could, even refusing to purchase much-needed robes to replace the threadbare; he'd allowed himself to become reliant on Snape’s generosity for Wolfsbane, even though, technically speaking, he could have afforded it.

Not for long.

He’s been through it so many, many times, he can read the proverbial writing on the bloody wall. It’s tangible in the air of the staffroom, reflected in the way their eyes slide away from his during conversations, as if they don’t want to invest in a modicum of time on someone they consider already long gone.

He’s going to be fired.

* * *

The door to his classroom creaks open, and she’s first to slip inside.

Early, as always.

It’s a seeming-eternity before other students wander in: long enough to be alone with him for a few minutes, but never quite early enough for him to ask her to leave.

But far too early for his comfort.

_…gods, her scent…_

He squirms in his chair.

She’s a waif of a girl, with Titian hair that cascades halfway down her back, and big, hazel eyes that whisper  _I dare you_. He remembers interpreting that look to be _I dare you to teach me_. Teenage defiance; nothing more. Maybe, just _maybe,_ it was cloaked in something a bit more sophisticated, like _I dare you to teach me something I don’t already know._

But it isn’t precisely that any longer. Anymore, it’s _I dare you to look at me_.

He glances up.

“Good afternoon, Miss Parkinson,” he says. He tries to swallow and finds his mouth dry.

“Good afternoon,” she echoes lightly, her voice at odds with the intensity in her eyes. “… _Professor Lupin_.”

Today, the girl neglected to wear her house tie; she folds herself into a chair and stares at him, challenging, taunting. Her delicate fingers play idly with the third button of her blouse.

Apparently, she knows how to avoid McGonagall on the way to class. She knows how to do a lot of things. Things she shouldn’t. 

_I dare you to look at me._

He slides his eyes back down to the parchment on his desk.

A book clatters onto the floor—her textbook. The sound slaps across the empty room and smacks against the stone walls. He raises his head to arch an eyebrow at her in his best impression of his generous colleague. As the girl twists out of her chair to pick it up, her blouse gapes open.

 _How crass,_ he thinks, narrowing his eyes at her. _How bloody cliché._

 _But her scent_ , the wolf counters.

Yes, her scent…a whisper of grass and cinnamon.

Fur and sin.

In the days _just before_ , even Snape’s flawless Wolfsbane can’t dull the assault of odours, attacking from every direction; aromas curl through his mind and anchor there, rooting themselves in his brain, solid and unyielding. As the moon finally drifts wan, most fragrances dim, fading into transparent, ghostly hooks, only echoes of memory.

But _her_ scent never lets him go.

And in this moment, beneath grass and cinnamon, _want_ mingles with fur and sin.

_…gods…_

He fights to still a shaking hand.

Unemployment is coming. In truth, he isn’t going to mind being fired. The loss of income will be hell, certainly, but he knows Dumbledore will say when he’s outstayed his welcome; the old wizard has a gift for discerning precisely how long relationships with his school can endure without things becoming too messy.

Remus trusts the Headmaster to make the decision soon.

And a part of him will be relieved when it comes.

Because if he stays much longer, the wolf is going to fuck that girl within an inch of her life.

* * *

“Professor, I need some extra help with non-verbals.”

Remus keeps his head down as the girl approaches his desk following the lecture. He didn’t need to watch her gather her belongings and draw closer—the swell of her breasts laid bare by gap in her blouse is still perfectly clear in his mind, and the slight increase of heady spice in the air calls to him like a plea, softly beckoning. 

Now that she’s standing before him, he looks up so as not to be overly rude.

“Miss Parkinson, may I suggest—“

“I can pay you to tutor me.”

He curses inwardly. Extra galleons would be helpful before being dismissed.

“Miss Parkinson—“

“I will pay you very well,” the girl continues, cutting across him while straightening her back. “I will owl you the arrangements. Thank you…Professor.”

* * *

Leaning against a streetlamp outside Hardys Sweetshop, Remus watches as autos and pedestrians swivel by on Charing Cross, oblivious to his growing discomfort. He glances down at the parchment in his hand to confirm, once again, that it’s the right day, the right time, and the right spot. Why did he agree to meet the girl? And why here? Could he be so desperate as to be lured by the promise of galleons, in spite of his better judgment?

 _Take_ , the wolf had argued.

 _Avoid_ , he had countered, knowing he’d already lost the debate.

He sighs.

She is thirty-seven minutes late.

The sun is jubilant, autumn’s last bastion guarding against the transition into full-fledged winter. A gentle breeze teases the hem of his trousers, a promise that the coming night will cool considerably.

But the afternoon crawls.

Time has always had a personal vendetta against him, and right now, he is running out of it. In less than a day, he’ll be stretched into mindless muscle and teeth and sinew. His life has been reduced into the weeks _in between_ , compressed into the days the moon dare not touch. And it isn’t nearly enough.

Even now, standing outside the shop, he can sense the pull of the nearing full moon through the daylight. He taps his foot impatiently. Where is she, dammit?

Once again, he glances down the street. The girl isn’t anywhere in sight. An odd mixture of guilt and annoyance washes over him; she’s damnably late and, truth be told, she’s a decent enough student to have no need for a tutor. He shouldn’t have agreed to exchange her galleons for his afternoon.

He glances at his watch.

Forty-three minutes.

Perhaps she won’t show.

Suddenly, the breeze brings the gift of cinnamon and grass.

Remus looks up just as the girl rounds the corner. Her slight frame is fitted into a tiny frock, the creamy skin of her legs bared for anyone to enjoy. He wants to growl. He needs to run.

_…fur and sin…_

“Hello,” she says.

He can’t help himself. “I've waited here for you—“

“Sorry,” she responds with a tiny shrug, and turns away to slip into the sweet shop. He scrambles in after her.

The painted brick storefront of Hardys gives way to a cramped interior, stocked floor to ceiling with an unimaginable array of candy and chocolate. The store presses in on him from all sides, assaulting eye and nose with sugar cloaked in the wrappings of puerile dreams and childish glory.

“See anything you like, Professor?” she asks over her shoulder.

“Nothing looks sweet enough,” he quips, pursing his lips in displeasure at her tease.

“Not even me?”

He huffs a small laugh, and runs a hand through his thinning hair. Gods, _sweet_ is not the word he would choose. Not even close.

What the hell is he doing here?

He watches, somewhere between fascinated and annoyed, as she wanders lightly through the displays of candy, finally deciding on a Whirly Pop—a rather tame one, as those things go—and leaves without a backwards glance. 

“I’m supposed to be tutoring you,” Remus says, catching up to her on the sidewalk. “And we’re running late.”

“Do you have somewhere you need to be?”

He stops midstride and stands there, still as stone, to submit to her scrutiny. An empty response dries on his tongue.

“All right,” the girl says, looking away. “We can sit at the Muggle library on the far side of the Square.”

At that, the girl darts down the sidewalk.

* * *

The girl walks fast. Very fast. Remus hopes she is attempting to make up for the time she wasted by being late. Perhaps, instead, she’s trying to outpace a restless demon at her heel. It occurs to him that means that he’s the demon.

“What library?” he asks, trying not to sound out of breath.

“The Westminster, Remus. May I call you Remus?”

“Miss Parkinson, I don’t think it would be appropri—“

“Pansy,” she corrects with squint and a half-smile. The Whirly Pop, not appreciably smaller after her tongue’s attention, somehow looks completely out of place bobbing in her grip. “My friends call me Pans.”

She takes a last lick of the barely-eaten candy before tossing it neatly into a nearby metal bin; Remus glances up to see they’ve stopped outside a corner building with the words _Hippodrome Casino_ glowing above the entrance. The scent of cologne, mixed with grilling steak and overly sweet air freshener, floods out and violates his nose. Suddenly, he wants to vomit.

“All this walking has made me hungry.”

She tugs him toward the doorway. He’s unsure of what to think of her easy willingness to touch him, but part of him is thankful anyway. No one willingly touches him anymore.

“What in Merlin’s name are you doing?” he hisses in spite of his gratitude.

“Easy, Remus, we’re just going to eat,” she says, with a wink over her shoulder. “I promise not to drag you downstairs to Lola’s.”

He opens his mouth to correct her informality, but she’s already twisted toward the bouncer to present her ID. The oaf waives her in without comment. She wanders inside, the chaotic noise of gaming swallowing up the sound of her footfall.

Fighting to quell his nausea, Remus tries to peer around the enormous Muggle to see where she’s gone. Merlin help him, as soon as he finds her, he’ll make damn sure she addresses him properly. She’s his student after all, and it’s important to remind her of that.

It’s important that neither one of them forget it. 

As Remus fumbles for his wallet, the doorman gives him a once over and raises an eyebrow. Bristling, he purses his lips and dives into the lobby after her, stuffing his ignored ID awkwardly back into his pocket.

He trails her up a set of metal stairs that open into a restaurant; tall letters etched in glass paneling announce it as  _Heliot Steakhouse._ With a whisper from the girl—and the covert gift of Muggle money—the host escorts them to a secluded table at the end of the long, curved space. They settle into a dark, high-backed, quilted leather booth.

Unlike the floor below, the restaurant is relatively quiet.

The server approaches. “Welcome to Heliot. Something to drink, miss?”

“The 2004 Vosne-Romanee Cote D’or.”

The girl knows wine. He’s reminded he doesn’t.

“Excellent choice,” the server intones.

“We’d like to order now.”

“Of course. For you, miss?”

“We’ll both have the larger filet, rare.”

Remus raises an eyebrow.

“On the side?”

“Whatever you bring will be fine.”

The server disappears.

He can’t pay, and he can’t offer to pay, and even though it’s been that way for so long, his embarrassment feels fresh and sharp across his skin. “Miss Parkinson, I don’t think…” Remus begins softly.

“My treat,” she whispers back.

It’s bitter, knowing this girl has to buy their meal because his life has been swallowed into the abyss of Lycanthropy. “I’m supposed to be tutoring you. You’re not supposed to be treating me to dinner.”

“Aren’t you having fun, _Professor_?”

The reappearance of the server with a bottle enables him to ignore her jibe, and focus on the wine’s aroma of smoky, velvety oak over the smells seeping upward from below. Remus steals a look at the girl nestled into the leather: her lips are parted. She seems as eager as he is to taste it.

“To us,” she says. She raises her glass, finishes it in one swallow, and tips the bottle to pour another.

“I wonder—,” he starts.

“And _I_ wonder,” she says, cutting across him, “do you have a twin brother named Romulus?” Her tone feigns innocence.

“No twin brother,” he answers evenly. He knows she’s teasing him, and has the uneasy feeling that he won’t like where this line of questioning takes them.

“Then where—or should I say when—did you get your name?”

“Pardon?”

“Remus…Lupin?” she counters, stressing each word separately. “ _Please_. I may not be a Claw, but even I know you weren’t born with that name.”

She watches him over the rim of her drink, the rings of hazel of her eyes eclipsed by wide, dark pools. He reaches for the red-brown napkin in his lap and twists it into a tight coil, hoping to distract himself.

“I’m not sure I’m dressed for this place,” he responds instead, hoping to derail the conversation and silence the suggestions the wolf intermittently presents in his ear.

“Why don’t you just transfigure your clothing?”

“Transfiguration is not my forte.”

She shifts toward him in the booth, nestling her palms flat against his chest. “Let me.”

He pulls away—just a little—and feels himself begin to sweat. The wolf begins describing its suggestions in great detail.

Gods, he really shouldn’t drink. _Ever._

With a glance confirming they are alone—at least for the moment—she murmurs a spell that slips down his body like silk, transforming the worn tweed and wrinkled cotton into a slim, navy suit with a subtle sheen, complete with a crisp white button down, open _just so_.

Better.

“You’re quite good at that,” he admits. Perhaps he should brush up on Transfiguration spells after all.

“Thank you. I’m quite good at a lot of things.” She takes another swallow and licks her lips, already stained the colour of Cote D’or.

The sight makes his cock twitch. And the wolf scream.

Hidden from view in his lap, he wrings the napkin tighter.

“We’re supposed to be—“

“Not today, Remus Lupin.”

The server chooses that moment to bring their meal, and by mutual, unspoken consent, they begin to eat. Briefly, the wolf is appeased.

Eventually, she asks, “How’s yours? Any good?”

“I’d be surprised if anything could ever be this good again,” he says around a mouthful of barely-warm beef, ignoring pleasantries and propriety for the moment.

They continue in silence.

“I’m full,” she says abruptly, dumping a small mountain of Muggle money on the table. “Do you trust me, Remus?”

He decides on the truth. “Not in the slightest.”

“Hmmm. Perceptive.” She stands. “Come on.” The girl leads them down a narrow hall, presumably toward the washrooms. After a furtive glance down the corridor, she yanks him to her and twists them both away.

* * *

The Apparition nearly unhinges him.

He’s never experienced such a complete and suffocating torsion: he tries to breathe, but his inability to move prevents him from pulling air into his lungs. Colour and smell are distant memory, and during the endless moments that pivot around him, he nearly succumbs to hysteria clawing in his chest.

Finally, finally, finally, finally, finally—

Remus bends double and draws a deep, ragged breath.

_Fuck. Fuck!_

“That was one hell of a side-along,” he mumbles, scrubbing a hand down his face once he’s able to stand upright again.

“You’ll get used to it.”

Remus has no idea why the girl would say such a thing, but there are other things to consider at the moment. A breeze introduces itself, heavy laden with the fragrance of sea, warm and soothing; it mingles with scent of rancid beer and the sticky-sweet of spilled mixer. Pointed palm leaves and wild undergrowth bend around them, weighted by the wet air. The clink of glass tells of a pub being stocked for the day.

They've appeared on a secluded path just outside an open air bar.

Somewhere far, far away from Muggle London.

“I’ll order for us,” she says, roaming toward the displays of liquor while the breeze toys with her hair.

He follows, shuffling along as the aftereffects of the Apparition abate. By the time he reaches the inside of the bar, the tightness across his spine is gone. And the wolf is quiet.

The bartender smiles warmly at the girl. “Miss Parkinson. Always pleasure to see you. The usual?”

“Two today, Barney.”

Remus sums up the man, concludes he is harmless, and excuses himself to use the loo. When he returns, the girl—no, _Pansy_ , he thinks, after that far-flung Apparition—pushes a drink toward him. A hand of whiskey, by the smell of it.

“Bottom’s up,” she says. She tosses hers back. He follows.

“I really shouldn’t be here with you. I could get fired. And, quite frankly, I need my job.” A half-truth, really. Getting caught would only accelerate the process.

She lays her hand gently over his. “It’s all right.”

Remus stares at her slight fingers atop his, unable to meet her eye. “I’m your professor. And I’m far too old for you,” he murmurs.

“For all the experience you’ve gained with age, you aren’t very wise,” she says, cradling her words in a faint smile.

“Is that so?”

“Let me ask you something. When was the last time you made a decision that wasn’t based on fear?”

 _Thirty days ago_ , he thinks wryly, as he pictures the last bright moon, remembering that the wolf hadn't been afraid of anything. “I’m not sure,” he replies instead.

She hums noncommittedly into her second drink; he plays with the paper coaster swallowing the condensation under his glass.

She eyes the disintegrating coaster. “Need something to get the edge off?” she asks. Her fist opens to reveal two round, pink pills. “You can waste away with me, as the Muggles say.”

 _As if._ “Actually, I can’t.”

“Too late,” she says and nods towards his empty tumbler.

He lets his head fall down into his hands. “You don’t understand what you’ve done,” he mumbles. It comes out like a whine. “I have a condition.”

“I’m terribly stunned, Remus…Lupin. So shocked, I may never recover,” she says. Her slight smile twists into a smirk as she saddles closer to his barstool.

“I could hurt you,” he tries.

“Do you think you could?”

“Yes.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Miss Parkin—“

“Pans.”

“ _Pansy_. I’m serious. You are playing a very dangerous game,” he pleads.

“Perhaps I have a condition that makes the fact of yours…irrelevant.”

He huffs a laugh. “I doubt that.” He scans the slice of horizon visible behind the bar for the waxing moon, but doesn’t find it. “Tomorrow night you won’t agree. Trust me.”

It was as good as giving his secrets away. Apparently, whatever drug she slipped him unstuck his tongue.

“Let’s not talk about our tomorrow yet.” She stands and nestles up to his chest. “Dance with me.”

He’s beginning to feel a bit lightheaded. He senses whatever is about to happen is far beyond his control—or beyond his ability to care, thanks to the drug—so he reaches for her hand. She leads him to a tiny patch of floor and curls into him as the music convinces their bodies to move.

Just one dance.

_One._

The bartender looks to Remus and nods his approval while he wipes a glass with a white linen.

As she wraps her arms around his neck, he feels like he could relax in her embrace.

He _could_.

And it’s madness.

“You smell like licorice and…,” she begins, pressing in to breathe her words upward, caressing his ear.

He chuckles. “And what, exactly?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

They sway for a moment in silence; he lets himself close his eyes.

Utter, complete madness.

“And I wonder…” he begins.

“Hmmm…?”

“How does the bartender know you?”

“I’ve been coming here for years. I visit once a month.” Impossibly, she draws him closer in, until her frock mingles with the fabric of his transfigured navy jacket. “It’s a nice place, don’t you think?”

“Where are we?”

“Southern California,” she says levelly.

_Fuck._

“Why?”

“It gives us more time.”

“More time?”

“We are—very roughly—eight hours behind London.”

“Miss Parkinson…eh…Pansy…”

She brushes a slender finger against his lips. “I’m not some little girl who needs help with non-verbals.”

As if to prove her point further, she traces the edge of his jaw with the tip of her fingernail, scratching his late afternoon stubble. The display sends a jolt careening down his spine that nestles firmly in his cock.

“I was once guilty of that, too. Most people are.”

“Guilty of what?” he manages.

“Not seeing what was right in front of me.”

Remus stares at her hard, trying to decipher the meaning in her words. He can’t.

“I should thank you, really,” she continues.

“How so?” His voice is gravelly, and his endless questions boring, even to his own ear. The tendrils of the Muggle drug pull and dance across his skin, perverting coherent thought.

“Everyone is so focused on your absence they rarely notice mine.” The girl is nearly purring now. She’s threading her fingers in his hair, making it even harder to process her words.

Wait. Shouldn’t he—?

“For a long time, I never noticed, because I’m gone when you are, and you’re gone when I am. Simple.”  

“I don’t—“

“I thought it might be fun to attend school and Dumbledore is, well, _Dumbledore_. Ever swayed by power and prestige.” She rolls her eyes. “You see, if he can prevent an incident with both of us at Hogwarts, he will gain even more notoriety and fame—assuming he plays his hand well. And he liked the odds.”

He feels his brow furrow in an effort to understand. He knows it shouldn’t be that difficult, but somehow, a simple answer eludes him. “An incident with both of us there?”

“Once they knew _you_ were there, my parents encouraged me to go. So, I met with Dumbledore. I suspect they wanted me to meet you, but wanted me to discover your secrets on my own.”

She murmurs something he cannot decipher; suddenly, a fine chain materializes around her neck. He follows its length until it disappears under the neckline of her frock. Freeing it from the confines of the floaty fabric, he exposes a large pendant, eclipsed within three circles of silver. He stares at it as it rests in his palm.

She looks down and closes her hand around his, hiding it from view.

“When I was a kid, my parents used one on the first day to delay it,” she says softly. “Not this one—an ordinary one, if any of them could be said to be ordinary. They coupled it with Apparition. We would let the moon chase us around the world. But it’s tiring, and eventually, it catches up with you, and then you have to face it. You can’t outrun all of it, not with the ordinary ones. But at least the cycle didn’t last quite as long. Sevvie’s potion was great, but it never made all the symptoms disappear. Not to mention that we were stuck for a while in a single, exhausting day, which wasn’t particularly practical.”

_Sevvie’s potion?_

“But then I found this one,” she continues, “and it’s made all the difference.” She smiles at him, a warm smile that he’s certain, somehow, is genuine. “It buys you days. _Nearly three days_ , Remus. But it buys much more than that. For me, it bought a life.”

He feels a pang of understanding twist in his gut.

“I’ve been watching you. I wanted to see if you were worthy to share it with me.”

He stops swaying and stares at her. Gold flecks in and out of the hazel, as if her eyes are alighting to the fact that he is there, standing in front of her. He’s not sure exactly what to do, what to say.

“Am I?” he whispers. “Worthy?”

She uncurls her fist, and gently peels back his fingers to expose the hourglass-shaped pendant.

“Walk with me,” she says, and disappears toward the restless shoreline.

* * *

 

They pad along on a cool, soft carpet of endless sand.

As they walk side-by-side, she speaks into the breeze ahead of them. “Every month, I come here, ahead of the moon. It gives me roughly eight hours before I start to feel it.”

He needs more: when, how... _who_. Instead, he watches her features move in the sunlight, considering, and lets her continue.  

“I spend some time here at the bar, chatting with Barney, and walking the beach. I brought you here because I thought you might enjoy finding out what it’s like to make peace with time.” She turns to him and smiles. “Later today, I’ll use the Turner to skip ahead, then Apparate back to school without ever changing.”

“You never change?”

“Not anymore.”

And a tentative tendril of hope springs in his chest.

* * *

 

“Come upstairs with me.” With a nod of her head, the girl indicates the soaring hotel tower beyond the bar. “There’s something you should see.” A small part of him still wants to resist, it really does, but he finds himself following her to the lobby anyway.

“I have a room reserved for several nights,” she continues as they approach the elevator. “We’ll have to leave around dinner time. You’ll be able to tell without a _Tempus_.”

She opens the door at the end of the seventh floor hall with a wordless _Alohomora_ and strides through a room ending in a generous, attached balcony. He follows her to the railing. The sand and sea dip away on both sides as far as Remus can see. It’s a gorgeous and dizzying sight, and he’s still reeling from her words. For a moment, he decides the practical matters may still be important.

“ _Colloportus?_ ”

“If you like. It’s all arranged, though. No one will enter in the room.”

“Now I know why you wanted me to see it,” he says. “It’s a beautiful view.”

“Not that.”

_…I dare you to look at me…_

With a tiny shrug, she vanishes another glamour, revealing a woman who looks to be in her late twenties with a ragged scar running the span of her arm.

“The Turner…” Pansy regards him with a rueful smile and the same gold-flecked hazel. “Technically, I suppose—because of the Turner—I’m younger than I should be. But I started skipping many, many years ago, so it’s a bit confusing.”

She turns away to stare at the sea. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. It’s true.

“You’re here, so it’s okay now. It’s finally okay.”

Fear coats his tongue. Not fear of the moon. Fear that somehow, someday, he will disappoint her.

_When was the last time I made a decision that wasn’t based on fear?_

He reaches for her, this girl, this unexpected gift, and cradles her head in his hands.

“Pansy…” he says. “Pans…”

“Breathe out, so I can breathe you in,” she begs. “Hold you in.”

He does what she asks.

Pansy closes her eyes. “You smell like licorice and pine…”

“Grass and cinnamon…” he whispers.

“Fur…” she breathes.

“And sin…”

“Do you want to…?”

_When was the last time...?_

“We could…”

She threads her fingers in his and draws him off the balcony, only letting him go so she can settle on the bed. Banishing her clothes to a chair across the room, she lays down on her back before him, opening up, inviting him in, her golden-hazel eyes watching, waiting, waiting, _waiting_ for him to decide.

_…I dare you to look at me…to see me..._

And he does.

One hand fumbles at his buckle; the other frees the buttons of his shirt.

He sinks into her all at once; her nails dig into the skin of his back in an effort to draw him in deeper and deeper into her flesh. He groans in appreciation. Of her. Of this.

But after a moment, he pulls away.

Instinctively it seems, she turns around—so that her knees and hands press into the mattress—and, with a growl, he descends upon her once more, leveraging his thrusts with one hand at her hip, and with one hand twisting her red-brown hair until her neck is exposed to the pleasure of his teeth.

With each slow thrust, she gifts him a tiny yelp of surprised pleasure.

And soon after, but not too soon, he climaxes with a throaty roar, pumping everything into her warmth as she clenches and writhes beneath him. She follows with her own desperate cry.

“Is this real? Are you real?” he whispers when his breath finally slows.

“I’m real.”

“If everything could ever feel this real forever…”

“It could,” she promises. “We could.”

* * *

Remus wakes to the familiar stiffness in his shoulder blades. The bed shifts. Pansy rolls onto her side, already dressed in her Hogwarts glamour. It’s both shocking and comforting to see her that way, knowing she’s something much, much more.

“Are you ready?”

“I think so.”

“It’s a one way ticket, Remus. A trade. You will lose three days of your life.”

“We lose three days anyway.”

Pansy hums knowingly. “We do.”

She gathers him close enough for the silver chain to surround both their necks. She locks her eyes with his.

_Could I really live a life outside the curse of the moon? A life without fear? A life with someone?_

“What is it, Remus?” she asks, her quiet voice the only sound he can hear.

“I need to ask you to do something for me, Pans.”

“You can ask me anything. Anything. Now. Or anytime in the future.”

He answers, “The only thing I'll ever ask of you is to promise not to stop when I say _when_.”

And, nodding in agreement, the girl smiles.


End file.
